


A Study in Pining and Blackberry Jam

by honeybun



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Absolute Trash, Credence is a long-suffering angel, Domestic, Fix-It, Fluff, Graves is a moron, Jam., M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-30
Updated: 2017-01-30
Packaged: 2018-09-21 00:30:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9522989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honeybun/pseuds/honeybun
Summary: Graves remembers one of his father's colleagues saying to him once, a little too loose-lipped from firewhiskey, laughing boisterously and smacking him on the back, at the time referring to his sour old high society wife.“It’s love, or it isn’t, old boy!”Graves was quite sure that in his case, it was.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Tiếng Việt available: [Một Nghiên Cứu về Tình Yêu Thầm Lặng và Mứt Mâm Xôi](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10662564) by [thegirl_gcat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegirl_gcat/pseuds/thegirl_gcat)
  * Translation into Français available: [Une étude en confiture à la myrtille](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15444282) by [glittertrashcan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/glittertrashcan/pseuds/glittertrashcan), [honeybun](https://archiveofourown.org/users/honeybun/pseuds/honeybun)



> Hello <3 
> 
> I'm not too pleased with the start of this little fic, the good stuff doesn't get started for a few paragraphs. Anyway! 
> 
> This is another original fic, hope you like it~
> 
> Find me on tumblr @ weepingstar

Credence had moved in a few months before, without any fuss, and without much in the way of belongings.

It was a rainy day at the end of Autumn, the chill of Winter beginning to set in, drizzle soaking Credence’s new coat from the shoulders down. Graves had carried the boy's measly belongings in a small suitcase he’d used at Ilvermorny, scratched up a little from frequent use, no good to him now he was older. No use but to give to Credence as he had done with so much of his old clothing, anything small enough to fit the boy had been dug out of the attic immediately, everything else he needed was bought hastily by Graves, much to the embarrassment of Credence when he’d found out. Graves had balked a little, both in awe and worry at how small Credence had looked in his old clothing, fragile as a bird, both beautiful and frightening in his vulnerability.

It had been a short cab ride from the comfortable hospital Graves had Credence ensconced in, across town to his brownstone, Credence had bitten his lip at the suggestion of apparition, quietly asked if they could walk, was he allowed to walk, _Mr. Graves please don’t bother yourself, please, you mustn’t pay for a cab_ \- Upon Graves’ firm instruction, Credence had eventually agreed to stop standing in the rain and obediently gotten into the cab magically hailed by his guardian.

Stopping in the affluent street that hosted Graves’ building, he had helped Credence down from the vehicle by taking his cold and trembling hand, not letting go to tug him in the direction of his own house. Credence had been silent in his awe at the side of New York even Ma hadn’t wanted to disturb, shining black gates and imposing buildings which whispered secrets of the wealth and power of their occupants.

Graves slowed down to frown at his front steps, worried that even after a month at the hospital perhaps Credence wouldn’t be fit to climb them, considered carrying him up before Credence, sensing his guardian’s hesitance, hopped up the stairs to stand in the awning. Graves briefly made conversation about the wards of the house, an assurance to himself as well as Credence, no one but you and I and the house elf can enter, Credence, you mustn’t worry, no one can find you here and I won’t let them. Credence nodding frantically, trying his best not to think of all the fuss his Mr. Graves had gone to for him already, how much trouble he was causing, thinking instead that he must enjoy it for as long as he possibly could, soak in as much attention as possible before it disappeared. Saw the almost empty suitcase in Graves' hand, sending little bubbles of hope to slowly fill up his heart until it was quickly ready to burst. 

Graves had carefully shown Credence around, told him that whatever he wanted was his, he could go wherever he liked, do whatever took his fancy, it was his home as much as it was Graves’. He'd been so careful to not overwhelm the boy with too much attention, too much affection, too much _anything_. If anything he had needed to reign himself in from gushing about how pleased he was to have Credence here, safe, instead told the boy he was very happy to have him, simply that, nothing more. He'd ust warned Credence to knock on his study and bedroom doors before entering, otherwise he could walk and roam as much as he pleased, could sit in Graves’ suite on the third floor and read if it was his preference, could set the kitchen on fire and dance naked in the living room if he so desired - he got a small, shaky smile out of Credence for that.

 

And Credence had really taken to their little life together exceptionally well. The boy had seemed to thrive from their carefully constructed routine, liked to know what to do and when, it was surely a product of Mary Lou’s strict regime that Credence was scared to do something wrong or out of line. Credence wouldn’t risk his place with Mr. Graves for the world.

Often the two of them would breakfast together in Graves’ third floor sitting room, Credence in soft pyjamas eating toast and jam, Graves already suited and booted with his second coffee of the day. Once, the fabled jam (blackberry, his favourite) had stained Credence’s pouty lips a deep plum and troubled Graves for the rest of the day, springing into his mind at the most unexpected and inconvenient of times.

Graves had quickly realised that giving Credence things to do would calm the boy's frayed nerves, giving him any kind of direction would soothe him like a balm applied to a bothersome sore. Graves made sure to give Credence easy tasks that wouldn’t cause him too much trouble, just enough to keep him happy and occupied. Apart from the small things Graves asks of Credence, he is left much to his own devices in the house, encouraged by Graves to read from his library, write using his special note paper, listen to Graves' records. Anything he might want, Graves was intent on giving him. Graves is very fond of finding a little evidence of Credence’s daily wanderings when he returns home - a pen out of place, a book left marked with a sugar quill, on one occasion, a pot of jam left open, still with a spoon digging into its contents. Credence had been told off for that, and jam was a strictly controlled substance from then on.

Credence was sure that it wasn’t normal just how much he enjoyed being a shut-in, sure other people would find it terribly boring being cooped up in the house all day, and was surprised at how well it suited him. Never one for much excitement and certainly not keen on strangers any longer, his self-seclusion was a Godsend, and Graves couldn’t pretend he didn’t enjoy knowing how his precious companion was safely locked and warded away by his own hand. Each morning, when breakfast was finished, Credence would reluctantly bid farewell to Graves, who raised a hand in goodbye, at the same time casting a series of complicated spells to keep Credence safe. Credence would watch the magic at work, the blue sparkling lines connecting and zinging into place, Graves would watch too, just to make sure. They both would say another goodbye once the magic had settled and retreat, respectively to their day of thinking about the other.

Graves always made sure to let Credence know when he would be home that night and consequently always saw his boy in the entryway on his return which was, he would admit, the best part of his day. Credence would go to bed and pinch himself to check he wasn’t still asleep in his rickety bed in the rickety church in his rickety old life. Waking up in the morning more than astonished that he was allowed to do it all over again.

And that was how Credence might describe his day, thoroughly, perhaps boring to some, but peppered with Mr. Graves’ kindness to him. Whereas for Graves himself, could describe his quite quickly in one sentence: Wake up, have breakfast with Credence, go to work, think about Credence, return home... to Credence. Now this was all perfectly fine, all well and good, but things couldn’t just remain simple, routine, Graves had to go and fall in love.

 

Slowly the two of them had inevitably grown closer, each of them the others close and only confidants, and neither would have it any other way. They would share dreams in the morning, a few weeks into their living together Graves even began to telephone at lunch time, Credence would be thrilled when such a thing happened. Then Credence would dutifully wait for Graves in the evening, ready to take the man's coat, eager to hear about his day.

Now, there doesn’t have to be a special occasion to fall in love, doves don’t need to be released in twos and a jazz band doesn't need to be booked (in most cases). It usually happens at a completely ordinary time of day, a completely ordinary day of the week, in a completely ordinary manner.

Graves had just _had_ a relatively normal day, at breakfast Credence had his favourite blackberry jam on toast, Graves had noted the staining as usual. Graves had growled at junior aurors at work, had called Credence at lunch to check he’d had his soup, and to ask what the boy had done so far today, had regretfully informed him that he would be back late due to some idiot messing up the pink forms. Credence had taken the news easily (no one ever filed the pink forms right but Graves) had said he’d make mushroom risotto for when Graves got back, it seemed the weather for it. Graves had gone about the rest of his day, often (but trying for only briefly) thinking about Credence. Upon returning home, he had spied Credence sat on the stairs, almost dozing off, socks off and bare feet sticking out of his pyjama bottoms. When Credence had realised Graves was home, he sprung to his feet to quickly take his coat, apologise for not hearing him.

Graves had told him that he should have gone to bed if he was so tired, Graves wouldn’t have minded, would rather he was well rested and warm, not falling asleep uncomfortably on the stairs with cold feet.

Credence had grinned, brushing off the coat in his hands, and he’d said “I’d never miss you coming home from work.” Busily bustling to sort out Graves' belongings while the older man stood still in shock at being struck in the heart by a winged bastard's arrow.

Something about that, something about how the boy had so happily cared for Graves' stupid coat, how he’d suffered through sitting on the stairs just to see Graves safely home, something about it grips onto Graves’ heart like fish hooks, painfully, and with the knowledge that dislodging them would cause serious damage which would remain forever after.

Graves frowns, physically shakes himself a little, thinks he must be tired, hungry maybe, _mad_. Thinks after he’s had some food and rested up, he’ll feel more himself.

He eats up Credence’s carefully prepared food, apologises again and again for not being there to eat with Credence and keep him company, Credence smiling and telling him that Effie had sat with him, Graves telling Credence sternly that house elves are not friends, and they shouldn’t be allowed at the table or they’d start getting silly notions and steal the linens.

Graves tells Credence to go to bed this instant when he sees his eyes drooping more than once, twice, three times, Credence acquiesces easily, and makes his way up to the fourth floor. Graves makes himself a drink, sits in his study and contemplates what on Earth could be going on, pours himself another glass much sooner than he usually would. After the fourth, and no answer to the sudden weight in his chest, he walks up to Credence’s floor, promising to only check his wards on the boy, instead ends up standing in his doorway, loosely holding onto a tumbler of firewhiskey as he assures himself that Credence is breathing and also coming to the realisation that he’s the most beautiful creation in the world.

Going to bed, Graves tries to sleep in order to forget this odd fever dream.

 

It does not get better.

Graves hardly sleeps that night, or the next, and finally at the end of a busy and sleepless week he collapses into bed in a deep slumber. His dreams are filled with Credence, are filled with their little telephone conversations, filled with the boy looking at him with those soft feline eyes, Credence’s devotion in waiting for him always, especially prevalent is how Credence looks _so good_ when wearing Graves’ clothes. He starts to think that maybe he loves Credence, maybe he always has.

  
In order to counter this, because our Graves is, what one might call, an idiot, Graves decides to act coldly towards Credence, cut love off at the source. Desperately plots to make sure he can’t possibly tell, thinks frantically to himself that if Credence would know what he was thinking he would run a mile, _several_. And what Graves must not do in any circumstance is to scare Credence away, he couldn’t do that. Credence is very shocked in his guardians sudden change of demeanor, from tender care to an odd neutrality. Graves is suffering at every moment where he can’t let Credence know he might be in love with him, is trying his best to do what’s right.

Graves knew he couldn’t tell Credence he loved him, not in good faith, not in good sanity, not in good anything. So Graves tells him in little ways, hopes Credence can forgive him, wants to cup Credence’s cheek and tell him it’s truly, truly, for the best darling boy, my little love.

When Graves asks Effie to wake Credence up with a hot chocolate, to bring his robe in warm from the radiator, to put an extra lashing of butter on his toast, what Graves is really saying is, I love you, I love you and the fluttering of pulse at your neck makes me happier than anything ever has before. The echoes of your life vibrate in my ribs and I feel it constantly, wouldn’t have it any other way.

When Graves still rings at lunch to ask how Credence fairs, he’s restraining himself from asking the questions he would like to, asking Credence how that red string of fate wraps itself so harshly around his finger, if it’s wrapped about Credence’s too. Ask if Credence had planned this, had hunted and captured Graves’ heart in a game as cruel as those with hunting dogs and rifles. Still loving Credence, wanting to say I love your hands, and I love your delicate fingers that dig into my chest to cup my heart, I don’t care if it’s a game, I hope you enjoy it, I hope it excites you, I hope I don’t disappoint.

Graves wants to tell Credence that the tornadoes they hear about on the radio were all for him, that the very same wild winds that tore apart towns and homes were in his honour. The love he held for Credence had just found another natural disaster to channel itself through.

  
Graves finds himself wearier than ever before, his mask slipping, his disguise as a man definitely not in love tearing at the seams. He found himself brushing aside Credence’s fringe today at dinner, saw the sweet, naive hope in Credence’s eyes, wanted to crush it for being so beautiful and wonderful, wanted Credence to suffer just as he was. Graves realises he’s been in love with Credence this entire time, had fought with the doctors to claim Credence as his ward, had so carefully hid him away behind doors and wards and gates and an overprotective house elf. He realises he’s cursed to live amongst the rest of New York’s population as the walking wounded, in the constant ache of love without reprieve, walking towards the only direction he knows, home, Credence.

He had wondered if his father’s colleague that day had ever experienced love, who could joke about the choking, violent, painful, terrifying monster that was love, that sat on Graves’ chest in the morning, shoulder throughout the day, and tugged with it's arms around his neck in the afternoon.

He knew he was hurting poor Credence, knew if anything, the boy deserved love, but not this poisonous, toxic, bog of treacherous and gnarled feelings that Graves had cultivated by accident. He still let himself buy the boy treats far too often, still allowed himself to admire Credence every minute of the day, sometimes found himself watching the boy sleep without knowing how he got beside his bed in the first place, still sat comfortably reading with him in the evenings, Credence's toes brushing against his thigh as he rearranges himself, as if no other couch but the one Graves occupies is suitable.

He had admitted to himself it was less like reading in the evenings, more like pretending to. Watching Credence press his lips together at a certain passage or word, wanting very much to push his thumb against the set of his mouth and erase the tension there, whisper against his cheek I love you, I love you, I love you, I should be grateful to be in your presence so often, but all I am is wretched. I love you, I love you, I love you, I can’t watch for a moment longer as your hand sits lonely and without mine to hold it.

 

Graves wouldn’t say he snaps, he might say he implodes, caving in on himself, he might say he creates the effect of a small sonic boom at the breakfast table, he might say that he may have gone a little loopy.

Once again, and as many of us find, it happened on a completely ordinary day, in a completely ordinary situation. The small sonic boom was very much an usual situation for Credence, who wasn’t used to noise much anymore - one might say that for Credence this was certainly the loudest event of the year so far, and it was December, so that was saying a lot. Of course only paralleled with the time Effie had tried to carry all the silverware at once and, inevitably, had dropped it.

Graves had been on edge for far too long now, junior aurors had taken to avoiding him like someone who had the plague and dragon pox rolled into one and would happily sneeze in your face. He was seen setting fire to memos which particularly vexed him (all of them), and had enforced a blanket ban on any jam related products in the office. He had well and truly, as they say, lost the plot.

On a Wednesday morning, Graves wakes up in a particularly terrible mood after having dreams of a certain beautiful waif he harboured in his home - had refused all along to take dreamless sleep because that would be too much like admitting his problem was _real_. He stomped his way around his room, cut himself shaving, and then tripped over his own boots. When arriving at the breakfast table, he had officially had enough, and then he saw Credence _wearing his jumper_.

It was a particular favourite of his, on Credence, not him. You might say it was his absolute favourite, you might say he thought about it all the time, you might say he felt giving Credence this certain sweater was one of his greatest accomplishments.

It had his initials on it. **P.G.** Big letters. A horrendous sense of possession overtook Graves whenever he saw his little Credence wearing it. The neck was far too wide on him and shucked carelessly to the side over one shoulder, the sleeves falling adorably over Credence's hands as he yawned and rubbed his nose. Percival Graves did a Bad Thing.

“I hate when you wear that jumper.”

Quickly followed by -

“I love you.”

Graves picks up his coffee, tries to recover by saying -

“Fuck.”

  
Credence, while not a morning person, can catch on relatively quickly, but this morning, he has no fucking clue. Twitching his nose, sitting down across from Graves, he begins to butter his toast. Credence tries to remain calm, quivering from both hope and cowardice, doesn't look up at Graves for fear of never saying what needs to be said, something he's been wishing for. Credence Barebone is brave.

“Why do you sound so lonely when you say you love me?” Credence asks, frowning, eyes pleading, before crunching on his overly buttered toast. Blackberry jam again, too, Graves notes. _Vindictively_.

“Because I am,” Graves tells him, slightly choked and still reeling from his own fucking idiocy. Director of Magical Security my goddamn **_hat_**.

“I’m here, aren’t I?” Credence, pointing out the goddamn obvious, Graves can see his toes nervously flexing under the table, wants to tell him he’d kiss each and every one of them fondly if given half the chance, that'd stop Credence from calmly eating fucking toast and jam, that would.

“Yes, but, you aren’t- you’re not, oh.”

“Yes.” Credence nods, as Graves figures out that Credence was pointing to the goddamn obvious, the goddamn obvious being, Credence is there, Credence is _here_. Credence always has been, had told Graves himself he always _would_ be. 

“So you know?” Graves asks, coughing to clear his throat of the lump that had just formed there, somewhat distantly hoping that once this blows over he can work back some of his dignity by pointing out all the nice things he does for Credence, the hot chocolate thing, the being terribly in love with him thing, the buying two jars of jam a week thing. _All of those things_.

“I know you love me and that’s why you’ve been acting an arsehole for two weeks, yes.” More toast crunching, more Credence looking at the floor, more Graves letting his heart spill over with what could have been and now what _is_. 

“I don’t hate that jumper.” Graves amends.

“I love you, too.” Credence replies.

 

One Wednesday, Graves takes the day off, his underlings breathe a sigh of relief, one of them actually cries.

One Wednesday, Graves confirms that it _is_ love, Credence wrapped around him, on his third lot of toast and jam, kissing him with berry stained lips, refusing to allow Graves to leave now he’s only just got him back.

**Author's Note:**

> not sure how i feel about this one! just something i needed to get out of my system~ a little more lighthearted but still terrible 
> 
> find me @weepingstar on tumblr xox


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